Final Thoughts

For so long the whole world was just a bus ticket away. For ten months the opportunity at spontaneity, the ability to change course and simply go was a constant. I was always just a few miles from something beautiful to stare at while I thought of far off things. The best part was the rapidity at which everything changed. This was the ultimate freedom, and within this freedom I found some clarity. When I departed from New York last February I feared the physical possibilities of danger. Things like sickness or injury. When I left Chile I feared damage to my new found spirituality. I was afraid that the new expectations I had of myself would quickly be forgotten. What if I came home and forgot the truth that I had uncovered while at a consistent distance. The reality is that I am struggling. Struggling to accept life in the United States and the way that I myself live. I am fighting internally between the girl that was on the road for so long and the one I was before South America. I find myself confused as to who I am now that I can be neither person with my whole heart. I face a daily challenge to be the person I would like to be. The truth is that the trip may have ended and I may be back on home turf but the journey is far from over. Now instead of a backpack I carry  both perspective and an internal struggle on my back.  South America was my road to discovery and freedom; North America holds the challenge of walking uphill with heavier things on my back. 

Collective Perspective

I am nothing if not the collective perspectives of my life. The road I first walked along was illuminated by the expectations of my environment not the pursuit of my own passion. The many lenses I have peered through have filtered my view and given it a unique light. At the age of 18 I became stuck and gained a more diverse yet more complacent perception of the world. My view grew dim and I was lost in the gray. I forgot that life is for living.

I searched for guidance. I visited a sweat lodge and asked the universe for a direction. I sat in the steam filled darkness on the soft wet ground of the Oregon forests and recited the ancient songs of the Americas. The heat swallowed me and I began to dream.

Jungle covered hills stretched as far as the eye could see and the flute of a lizard played a perplexing song. The landscape rose and the greatness of the Andes stood before me. Grandmother earth looked down at me from the icy peak of the tallest mountain. Her voice was ancient and filled with wisdom. “Mija, no puedas esperar mas, necesitas ir ahora.” The Andes crumbled and the sky above me filled with night. Grandfather sky stared down at me and began to cry. I began to cry. Who had I become? I was no longer alive. I simply existed in a world without purpose.  

I left. I bought a one-way ticket, packed a bag, and was gone. I left my country, my language, my people, and my world. The spirits had pointed me down a path and though I didn’t know why, I knew it was time to venture into the unfamiliar.

South America became my classroom, every moment held something to be gained. Every human was a teacher, every opportunity an acceptance letter. I lived on farms and picked coffee every day. I slept on the ground and awoke at sunrise to make cacao into chocolate. I turned plants and insects into dye with Andean women. I gazed up at the Milky Way in the desert and contemplated the sound of the ocean. I stood in silence with impermanent friends and witnessed the heavens erupt with electricity.  I got lost in the cobble stoned streets of unfamiliar cities and heard the voices of the people on the art-covered walls. I joined Bolivar in his tour of liberation across the wetness of Ecuador and met Pacha Mama in the dryness of Peru. I fell for Marquez in the magic of Colombia and recited Neruda in the Chilean wilderness. I practiced art with an argentine muralist and brought South America into my studio. I connected with Spanish as if we shared a lifelong friendship and conversed with locals about government corruption and American imperialism. I felt Guevara’s fire in my blood and I am forever changed by the spiritual wisdom of these ancient lands.

 I have discovered the meaning of the lizard’s song. We must journey to our mountain before we can climb it. When I left I was looking for a place to belong, but what I discovered was an answer. 

a travelers surrealism

There is something surreal about travel.  when you're moving through space into something unknown the whole world is full of wonder and you are free. you have the eyes of a child. looking at hills rolling out in every direction from the window of a cracked and smelly bus holds a magic. after a while walking through crowded streets as an outsider becomes comfortable and speaking a different language seems normal. somehow you cannot quite remember what it feels like to live a life in english. stationary becomes terrifying. and while you're sitting in your sleeping bag on the side of the road waiting for a bus at the crack of dawn in Patagonia you laugh, because of course a week to that plane ticket and your here doing what you do best. Climbing to the top of a mountain to look up at the peaks of the Torres in a park at the end of the world makes sense because what else would you be doing on a thursday in november?

There is something surreal about traveling, and while you sit on that smelly bus, or while you freeze on the side of the road, or climb that mountain you have time to think. You get to think about every single moment of your life, you can evaluate why you said or did certain things or think about all those who've broken your heart. You can analyze your life decisions and still have time to imagine a world where everything goes exactly your way. You have time to study spanish in your head and think about loved ones. mostly though, you learn about letting go. you think about how unreal it all is, how the kilometers have gone right past your eyes and you are not quite sure any of it has even really happened to you.

These past ten months have become a lifetime, and while you know that the world will turn right back to normal when this year's hour glass flips, it certainly did happen. yet, like everything else in life you will have to let go. you must move past the mistakes you've made, the people you have hurt and those who have hurt you. if you have taken anything from your time on the road it is that nothing is permanent. sure you are stranded, maybe you are afraid, you could be cold or alone, but you can laugh because thats what it takes to see the world. thats what it takes to experience the rush, that is what makes it all worth it. Everything will be alright, just breath and remember the good, and you will be able to keep walking.

Pantanal and the language of the jungle

The sun is setting, and though no human talks the earth speaks clearly. My voice is stolen from me because in the conversation of life it is my turn to listen. The insects chant loudly, telling the story of their short lives. They spend their time on the ground, always looking up at the tremendous world around them. Though they are small, they know of their own importance. Without them, the kingdom would fall and the frog could not croak. The frogs sing the story of their metamorphosis. They begin in the water, small and in danger of all things. They grow and change, as all things do, until they step out of the swamp. They are strong and become master of both earth and water, their growth the key to the evolution of us all. They sing a song to the inhabitants of the wetlands, as they jump up to meet the masters of the air. The birds recite their ancient poems, telling the others of their travels. They speak first of their mothers, who taught them how to fly. They tell of the language of the wind and the world from above. They explain the nature of freedom. “We are all free if we choose to be, our freedom comes from the bravery to follow the wind and face those things that seem impossible.” The birds recite their epic poems and speak of the dangers of the land. The caiman is quite. Sitting in the murky water his eyes reflect millions of years. He has witnessed the earth change and has come to know that all things die and nothing can last forever. His armor was built eons ago but all those he was created along side have returned to the ground. He knows of the nature of death and fears nothing save extinction. He carries the wisdom of balance and watches as another day ends in the wetlands. The sun melts behind the line of palm trees in the distance, and the symphony plays on. I sit alone by the water, both prey and predator. Along the edge of the swamp, in the darkness of the oncoming dusk steps a creature. She moves without making a sound. The jaguar leaves nothing but soft footprints behind her as she lurks, a secret queen. She listens to the song of the wetlands, and stairs me right in the eye. She knows, she knows the story of the universe, she knows the story of me. Her spots are the mark of her ancestors, the scars of her evolution. She crouches to the ground and I can feel her spirit, for I am learning the language of the jungle. She knows all, she stairs me in the eye, and then, she disappears. The sun is gone and the moon begins to rise in the east. Tonight it is colored orange and is perfectly round. It sends the intense heat of day and his companions to bed and calls to awaken the creatures of the night. I begin to walk, the symphony has ended and I have taken what I can from its ancient knowledge.

how do i fix it?

I stood online waiting to check my bag for my flight. It was taking a very long time, as things often do in Latin America, and I felt a shiver go down my spine as I thought of a man in need of charity. Earlier that day I had not intended to come home, and here I was, headed back to the giant head of the snake that is imperialism. And as I stood there, waiting for someone to weigh my bag I thought of a man I had seen on the street that day in La Paz. His feet were swollen, and he wore sandals that were breaking in the frozen winter nights of the city. His eyes were squinted shut and he bumped into things as he waddled from one point to the other. Life was clearly punishing him, life had decided that this old man in his years of old age would suffer, and be tortured by the evils of inopportunity. This mans crime? He was born a slave, one of the people who are captive to the corruption of their own government and the government of the United States. This mans crime, is that he is not important enough for anyone to give a shit. This man will be cold tonight, his shoes could not protect his broken and infected feet, and I was going back to the death star, the head of the snake, the country that is exploiting and ignoring this man.

I have been home for a few days now and I am having some trouble rationalizing why the amount of wealth in the world is spread so thin in some places and yet layered so thick in others. The butter that is wealth has failed to melt into a more even layer. It is as if we do not understand that the world has globalized, but we are so connected. We speak something like 5 or 6 languages all over the world; we listen to Katy Perry and Pitbull all over the world. Everyone knows who Obama is, everyone knows who Kanye West is. The world does not exist as a place separated by oceans or mountains anymore; we exist as one globe, as one people. We must forget the labels we have clung to for centuries in order to remember that we are connected. Let labels like, black or white or native die, let labels like man and woman die, we must remember something that I think we all have forgotten, we are all one people, human people.

The CIA assassinated Che Guevara in 1967, do you know who Che Guevara is? You may have seen him on a t-shirt, you may have seen him painted on a wall and you may not have known it was an image of freedom and equality. You may own something with him on it and be apart of the disease he tried so hard to fight off. “The powerful of the earth should take heed: deep inside that t-shirt where we have tried to trap him, the eyes of Che Guevara are still burning with impatience” –Ariel Dorfman. The CIA assassinated Che in 1967 in Bolivia; do you know why? Because he tried to fight for the man without shoes, because he wanted the United States of America to stop exploiting the people of the world. He wanted them to stop using the human brothers and sisters from places like the Congo or Cuba in a game with the soviets. He wanted the people of the rest of America to have a fighting shot at a good life. and we killed him. we killed him and hid his body in a ditch with many other men. We killed a good man, who only wanted to change the world. And do you know what he said when the men came to kill him? “shoot, coward, your only going to kill a man.” Maybe Che’s revolution is over, but he is not truly dead, and hope remains.

The American dream, the American disease. You will never be happy until you own all the stuff in the world. Capitalism, an economic system of greed that will never buy you happiness. The world is an unfair place, and our government wont allow for the world to improve. The government is supposed to be by the people, for the people, but the people are enslaved. The citizens of the empire are enslaved, enslaved by media, enslaved by greed; they are so enslaved that they cannot see any of the richness in their lives. The people of the world are enslaved, they are enslaved because they spend all year growing fruit for the people in the north and they get two cents for it, meanwhile your at whole foods paying someone 8 dollars for it. The system is broken, the man’s feet are broken, and maybe we cannot fix it, but Che believed we could. “I am not a liberator. Liberators do not exist. The people liberate themselves.” –El Che So I faced a choice, as I stood online going home, a choice that I will face again soon, what do I do? How do I reconcile where I come from and where I have been? How do I fix it?  

We've gotten good at this .. Cusco 

Urubamba Peru 

Check out the view

Oxapampa Peru 

Paracas Peru 

The whole wide world is out there.. Just waiting

Paracas Peru

Paracas Peru 

Lima Peru 

Hucachina Peru 

Black on Black HIghtop converse

I sat in the portal of my tent, my home, and began putting my shoes on. As i did so i tried to remember all the things that these shoes have come to know. These shoes have gone halfway across a continent; and they have watched some spectacular things.

These shoes have sat on many buses, looking out at the breathtaking beauty that is the Andes. They have slid along rocks in a crystal clear river in the jungle. They have gotten lost in the canopy; they have watched monkeys fly through the trees. These sneakers, they have known the western coastline at sunset and the fall of night in the desert. They have climbed to see glaciers and crawled under electric fences. They have felt the earth breath underneath them and they have met the spirit of wachuma. They have danced salsa with beautiful Peruvian men in a crowd full of people in celebration. They have watched fireworks explode over a sacred place and conversed about communism in a foreign language. They have touched disgusting floor, and been drenched in the hot rain of the tropics. They have seen the sun set on mountains of sand and listened as every noise in the dark echoed larger than life against the dunes. They have seen both good luck and bad. They have crossed mountains and picked coffee. They have hung inches from the floor as they rode across a beautiful wasteland on a tiny motorcycle. They have stayed on my feet through freezing cold and smoldering heat. My shoes have stories that they could tell you, they have many things to say. They have gotten lost, and found themselves in a place where the locals did not expect them. They have received gifts from strangers, simply to welcome them to Peru. My shoes, they have seen a woman without a home cry in thanks for less than four dollars. They have seen cows take over roads and horses escape from their stables. They have watched mist rise as the sun came up above Machu Picchu.  They have walked across a dirt floor, scattered with hundreds of guinea pigs and listened to a woman laugh and discuss her life and culture. They have watched the world turn as they conversed with Willie Nelson’s nephew. They have shaken with fear as a truck drove along the very edge of a mountain. 

My shoes have gotten dirty. They have been worn away in certain places, they have grown tired of walking and left blisters on my feet, but oh could they tell you a story. 

The Andes, they'll leave you breathless

"Whereas the beautiful is limited the sublime is limitless, so that the mind in the presence of the sublime, attempting to imagine what it cannot, has pain in the failure but pleasure in contemplating the immensity of the attempt" -Kant 

High above the world somewhere, headed towards the heavens

Things I try and remember

Quilatoa

It was cold. It was really fucking cold. I was wearing two long sleeve shirts, a wool sweater, two pairs of thermal long underwear and Jean overalls. I was wrapped in a sleeping bag equipped to deal with below zero weather. The earth beneath the tarp that created a floor in the makeshift shelter had become almost icy since the sun kissed it goodnight. The frozen dirt sent a shiver down my spine. I began to move to generate heat within my bag; the closest thing to a consistent bed that I own. It was around 4:30 A.M. And all I wanted was the sun to come up over the mountains and bring me some warmth.
Chilled to the bone and unable to sleep, an hour passed as I waited for the warmth I knew was nearby. Finally, the darkness beyond the walls of the tent began to soften and light started to sink into the shelter. I sat up, and pulled my arms out of the protection of my sleeping bag and reached all around me for my bag. My fingers found the wrappings of the tea and the clink of our small portable stove. I unzipped the tent and scrambled outside into the silent cold mountain air. In every visible direction I saw only green and brown peaks, cascading downward into a crater filled with dark aquamarine water. Mist grabbed at the peaks and cracks in the mountains and the sun began to rise and burn off the clouds far above the crater. The earth was still and the atmosphere was completely hushed, save for the small sound of a flame heating water. I closed my eyes and crossed my legs, sitting up straight and focusing on only my breath. I cleared my mind and enjoyed the cold freshness of that frigid and spectacular morning. The water boiled and I drank the hot tea quickly, finally bringing some relief to my frozen skeleton. The light from beyond the mountains grew stronger and the air began to grow warmer. I crawled back into the tent and finally found rest.
I awoke to a dog barking, somewhere nearby, and I felt the sensation one gets when they are trapped in a small and warm space. A feeling of both comfort and panic. The sun shone through the tent, heating the air within it, and I sat up and started removing layers of clothing that never seem to maintain the proper temperature. After a breakfast of ramen noodles and bitter black tea we headed down to the bank of the lake. We stepped into a kayak and paddled our way into the center of the lake. At the center we stopped and drank in the tranquil scenery around us. Our hands froze to ice as we sat upon the ancient crater enjoying the beauty of our worlds nature. Mist grew thick in the distance over the peaks to our left and the green landscape was reflected both in the stillness and in the color of the cold water.
Later, I sat upon a small horse, my paint covered overalls, green llama sweater and orange hippie headband screaming to all the locals that I am in fact a giant gringo. If that had not been enough, my large backpack was on my shoulders and my skin had turned red from the exaggerated Rays of the sun. we climbed and I looked around me as the altitude increased and the crater became the background as opposed to the main attraction. I felt cold, but it was the kind of cold that simply bites at your skin butt never really penetrates into your system. The world around me seemed spectacular, the sound of hooves on dirt and Kitchwah infused Spanish followed me as I rode along the winding incline, up to the small village of Quilatoa. We climbed into the mist, the temperature dropped and the water grew greener to my eyes. The fog was thick around me and the strides of the horse mandated my view. I was riding from the center of an ancient eruption into the heavens. The air was thin and the world seemed stained with bright white clouds. I rode up into the sky, headed toward god, and although I had not died, I had found peace.

The swing at the end of the world

Oh the places you'll go

Congratulations today is your day! 

You're off to great places! 

You're off and Away! 

You have brains in your head 

And feet in your shoes 

And you can steer yourself 

Any direction you choose!! 

D

A love affair while abroad

I will not belong to you, I will not depend on you, for I have yet to find sure enough footing and you may cause me to fall. I cannot be yours for I can only ever be mine. You may wish to hold onto me tightly, but you will never be able to clutch onto me as I discover the world. I am not a character in your story, I do not exist to further your experience, my experience is far to important. I cannot follow you, if we do not walk along the same path, our goodbyes will come quickly. I cannot take care of you, I am to busy watching over myself. I cannot change for you, I am to original to be manufactured.
I will not belong to you, I am glad I am not waiting for you, but I will never forget you; any of you.
You all have left me burned and scarred, hungry and empty. I once set myself aflame to keep you from freezing, I have let myself bleed to keep your heart beating. I have refused food so that you could eat, and I have remained silent as each of you have taken almost everything away.. in the end,  no matter how bloodied or burned, starving or broken that I was, I was still there.
I will not belong to you, I will never again slowly droop as you lean weight against me. I am yet to know someone who can dance with me and I do not wish to follow someone else's lead.
My story has no Prince Charming, I am my own warrior. I do not need a third leg to stand tall. I cannot belong to you, for I am deeply in love with someone else.
Nothing holds me, do not try and grab me, your clutching hand will destroy the freedom that you have fallen in love with. i will not belong to you, for I cannot be domesticated. I have found freedom and never again shall be tamed. I will never belong to you, my heart belongs to someone far more important.

The story of mother (I sat in a church and imagined)

It was getting dark, and the smell of the mist had become heavy in the air. A woman stepped lightly, her feet cracked and aged. Her eyes were shut and her hands were held naturally at her sides. She walked on wet mossy earth and saw everything around her as her feet made soft indents in the earth. It was mother, the original mother. She had grown from the branch of the greenest tree, and was born from the womb of the rich and dark brown earth. She stepped slowly, breathing in the scent of clean air. She could feel the birth of a new young brother through the vibrations of the ferns brushing against her exposed ankles. She smiled as she realized he would most deffinetley be furry and four legged. She could see the pain of an old horse in the distance as she took a deep breath through her nose. She whispered to the wind and thanked him for his years spent on our grandmother and prayed he return safely to grandfather sky.
Mother stopped walking, she had arrived on the hill above her small village, a place of balance and respect. She sat at the edge of the cliff and opened her eyes. Before her was a spectacular valley, protected on all sides by spectacular mountains covered in living green foliage.
Mother put one hand on her heart and closed her eyes. She placed the other flat on the ground and waited to feel the pulse of the valley. First she felt the reverberations of the bushes and small animals, next she could count the beat of the small birds and the beings that slither. Then came the hum of the primates and the bugs, as well as the song of the trees. Lastly she found the Human vibration, only a high pitched tick keeping time in the background of the song.
She then could see the whole valley and the full story of the sacred land. She could see the past, and saw the great test of days gone by as her people almost met their demise. She watched as they experienced revival. She then began to listen to the story of the future, she heard the strangers come and saw the strange things they brought from places far away. She could feel them bring sickness, she could hear them bring cures. She could see the world changing and felt a new way. She saw crosses and tall people with faces white like coconut. She saw power change hands and heard the whisper of a man named Jesus. The people who brought him however, had currupted his teachings. She saw far into the future, and spotted a woman sitting in a beautiful old church, her body bent forward, her troubles deeps lines on her face. Her hair was black and her eyes were brown, her small mouth whispering memorized words, a string of beads held between her fingers. Mother saw her, and felt her pain. Mother began to sway back and forth and chant the song of the birds and the cries of the seals. She called to the woman, her child, far off in the future. But the woman did not hear the call of the first tongues. She knew not the sound of the turtles as they crawled through the night. She was deaf to the chatter of the insects. She could not read the chapters  in a spider web, she was blind to the motion of the leaves. Mother felt shock, she had never known of a life who was illiterate in the ways of her family. Mother dug her fingers softly into the earth. She listened for the melody of the grandmother, and began to sing along to the music of ancient earth. She asked "oh grandmother, how have my children become so lost? When was their balance destroyed? How did their hearts become severed from the ground?" Grandmother showed herself to Mother and mother could see the world beyond the valley. Grandmother showed her lands around the mountains and the rivers the spread out In all different directions like fingers giving life to the land. She saw the oceans and the animals from all over the earth. Mother looked closely at grandmothers beauty, and noticed that something was wrong. She saw what was poisoning her family, she saw waste, she saw garbage and destruction. She wept as she saw trees falling to the ground before their time and animals homeless and hungry. Mother screamed, for the pain of grandmother, for the destruction of her home, for the imbalance in the world.
Mother whispered softly "why?"
Grandmother sang into the wind the song of old times. The story of the circle of all things and the tale of brother balance and his inconsistent existence. Grandmother said to mother "all things will be restored in time"
Mother looked again for the woman praying in the large church and saw her as she prayed to strange men of the past. She looked closely at the woman and saw something in the lines of her face and the soft sparkle of her eyes. For this was her child, daughter of her daughter. Mother knew in that moment that these trials to would pass.
Mother opened her eyes and looked around. The night had arrived and sister Luna had come to awake the creatures of her domain. Mother felt peaceful and a smile tickled her lips. For hope would never be lost,  the energy of the great universe would always restore the balance of everything.
Mother walked down into her valley to join her family, eyes closed, hands at her sides.

Bohemia

Deep in the heart of Bohemia, surrounded by people from all over the world, I had a thought. As I looked around I saw the beatniks, the hippies, the strangers, the flappers, the punks, the flannel wearing grunge people, the hipsters. The people who make up the "counter culture". You know the people I'm talking about, the artists, the musicians, the authors, the dancers and the poets. The colorful men and women. The people who have weird hair cuts because the thought of being the same as anyone else does not satisfy them. The people who live a life of passion, the people who make love to themselves every time their imagination begins to spin and they can create something from nothing. The people who are deep into a lifelong love affair with their own talent and creative evolution.

In Bohemia, these people stood around a bar listening to a band play while they sipped on hot apple cider and Ecuadorean liquor. We were all here for open mic night, and the sound of Spanish folk music filled the bar and the hearts of these strange people.

The funny thing is though, in my world the idea of a counter culture is backwards. These people are the majority aren't they? My world is full of the wanderers, the dreamers, the artistic, environmentally aware liberals, and the counter culture is made up of the people still fighting facts and advancement. I don't know any young people that don't worry about the fate of our planet.

Are we really the "others"? Or are those people, the ones following orders and forgetting to think for themselves, are they the ones that are truly different? I think the people who have chosen to live a passionate life as opposed to a comfortable one are the normal ones. The humans world wide who question what they are told and reject what the world expects of them in order to think, they are what evolution intended right? Those who care more about the little things than giant piles of money. We are in the majority, right?

There i was, watching an artist make love to the microphone. She was Proud of her passion, engaged with her process, and it was so beautiful. Her entire body moved as she sang the words of a love song. Her face alive in pain and pleasure as she used her whole self to tell a story to a room full of strangers. A giant smile ripped it's way across my face and all I could think was "here I am, and for tonight it is where i belong". Yet then I began to think of just how many Bohemias I have seen, how many like minded friends I have made. How many young people I have met who know that the world needs to change. One day we will be in charge, one day we will have the chance to change it all and Cuenca Ecuador was just another place filled with those of us who hope to be the change that we need.

A note to the women of the world

A few nights ago I was walking home alone after getting dinner with some friends I had met a few weeks ago when I got lost. I wasn't worried, I was in a populated area and I had my trusty tazer in my pocket, just in case. A man yelled out to me from a car window and I kept walking. Shortly afterward the same car seemed to have turned around and pulled up on the curb in front of me. The man leaned out the window, and started to say something and I decided to book it. I ran away, never in my life have I run away from someone, until that night. Even in a nice neighborhood, even with people around, I felt the need to run away.

I have been traveling now for two months, I have been all over two countries and have met upwards of 200 people. I have conversed with individuals from all over the world in two languages and I like to believe I have gained a bit of a global perspective. For a girl from Long Island New York, one could say I have come a long way. I have seven months of traveling left on my itinerary and many countries. So far, I have experienced many thought provoking and enlightening moments, as well as many terrifying ones.

I am not traveling alone, but I have learned very quickly and harshly that if I am alone not to tell anyone that I am. "My friend is in the bathroom" "oh my boyfriend is waiting for me" "no she just wasn't feeing well but she's waitinng for me at the hostel". Things that you learn at a young age as a girl growing up anywhere become hyper alert and most female travelers follow the same set of rules.
Never go out drinking alone
Never stay out past 10 if you need to walk home alone.
Act like you know where your going
Check behind you
Don't walk with headphones in
Cary something to protect yourself with
Wear shoes you can run away in
Never get cornered
Don't accept a drink from a stranger
If you order a drink watch the bartender make it above the bar.
Simple rules right? Rules that every woman knows, rules that I believe may make female solo travelers all the better at traveling. These things do not hold us back, they make us better. Better at getting out of bad situations. Better at knowing who to trust. Sure it isn't fair that even as a 13 year old my parents would drill these things into my head. It isn't fair that men aren't simply told how they should not behave and we are told how to not to get murdered or raped. Yet, that is where the world is right now. These things do not hold us back, they make us well equipped.
Many male travelers have told me stories of getting robbed or beaten up and they always start with "I was walking home alone at midnight, sort of drunk" and my reaction is always "well, why were you doing that?"
As a woman I am always a bit more aware of how things could go bad, I always have an escape plan, especially when I'm in a foreign place for the first time.
When you travel as a woman you become a target in many ways, but you also become a warrior. You become strong and fearless. You learn how to be ready for anything and how to protect yourself. You learn how to depend on yourself and how to respect and love yourself. There is no one else to distract you from you, and you are forced to see who you really are; and accept it. You learn quickly how to make decisions that may very well alter something major on your path. You get to be the protagonist, no one can make you into some side character in a mans story. You are the narrator. When you travel as a woman you will be afraid, and you will probably at moments be in danger, but you will be powerful. You will be in charge, you will the captain of the ship. You will look fear in the face and laugh at it, for it will never control you. You can be the rolling stone! You will be the song writer and no man will leave you behind.
Traveling as a woman will probably change who you are, you will get to see how your very existence as a traveler is a product of feminism but you will also be forced to see how much further we have to go as a world. You are well equipped, your are strong, you have learned how to be fierce. You are a woman! And if you let the fear of "what if" stop you, you don't deserve to know the magic of the unknown.